England, 1854Royal Dewar crossed the massive oak-beamed entry of Bransford Castle, his tall black riding boots ringing on the wide-planked wooden floor. As he strode past the main drawing room, so impressive with its high, Tudor-style ceilings and heavy beams, he tried to ignore the worn Persian carpets, the way the bright reds and vivid blues he recalled from his youth had faded to shadowy, lackluster hues.
As he climbed the wide, carved mahogany staircase, he tried not to notice the feel of the wooden banister beneath his hand, once polished to a rich patina but now dull from years of neglect.
He had been home for less than two weeks, returned to England from his family's plantation, Sugar Reef, in Barbados, where he had been living for the past seven years. His father had fallen ill and the family solicitor, Mr. Edward Pinkard, had sent for him.
The Duke ofBransford is dying, the letter had said. In all haste, my lord, please come home before it is too late.
He was home at last, grateful to have this brief time with his father, but the house was dreary and in desperate need of repair, and he was unused to being cooped up inside. At dawn, after checking on his father's condition, he had headed for the stables. He hadn't ridden Bransford lands in the past eight years and he looked forward to becoming reacquainted with his home.
Though the winter wind was chill, the sky gray and cloudy, Royal enjoyed the ride immensely, surprising himself a bit. The hot climate of Barbados had seeped into his bones and his skin was sun-darkened from his work out in the sugarcane fields. Yet this morning, with the brisk wind in his face and the open fields stretching as far as he could see, he realized how much he had missed England.
It was late morning when he returned to the house, swinging down from the big gray stallion that had been a gift on his twenty-first birthday, a colt he had named Jupiter that now stood seventeen hands high. He handed the reins to a waiting groom.
"See he gets an extra ration of oats, will you, Jimmy?"
"Aye, my lord."
Feeling only a little guilty for leaving with his father so ill, Royal hurried into the house and climbed the stairs to the second floor. Striding down the hall, he paused for a moment to collect himself outside the door to the duke's bedroom suite.
A strip of light seeped from beneath the heavy wooden panel, indicating a lamp burned inside. Royal turned the silver handle, opened the door and strode into the massive, dimly lit chamber. Across the room, his father lay beneath the covers of a huge four-poster bed encased in heavy gold velvet hangings, the shell of the man he had once been.
The duke's valet and most trusted servant, George Mid-dleton, hurried forward on long, spindly legs, his shoulders stooped from years of service and now resignation.
"It is good you are back, my lord."
"How is he, Middleton?" Royal pulled the tie on his long scarlet woolen cloak and allowed the valet to sweep it from his shoulders.
"I am afraid, my lord, each day he grows weaker. Waiting for Lord Reese to arrive is all that keeps him going."
Royal nodded. He prayed his brother, two years younger than his own twenty-nine years and a major in the British cavalry, would reach Bransford before it was too late. His third and youngest brother, Rule, had already arrived, home from his studies at Oxford.
Royal glanced toward the velvet curtains and saw Rule sitting in the shadows next to their father's bedside. Rule rose and started forward. Tall and broad-shouldered with the lean-muscled build of an athlete, Rule looked a good deal like his siblings: same straight nose, carved features and solid jaw, but unlike Royal, who had the dark blond hair and golden-brown eyes of their mother, both Reese and Rule were black-haired, with the brilliant blue eyes that belonged to the duke.
"He's been asking for you." Rule moved into the flickering light of the lamp on a nearby rosewood dresser, the dangling prisms throwing off a rainbow of colors. "He's been rambling a bit. He says there is a promise you must make. He says he cannot die in peace unless you vow to see it done."
Royal nodded, more curious than concerned. All three brothers loved their father. And all three had abandoned him years ago to follow their own selfish dreams. They owed the Duke of Bransford. His sons would do whatever he asked of them.
Following in Middleton's wake, his brother strode past Royal out the door and closed it softly behind him, leaving him alone in the gloomy, airless room. His father had suffered three separate strokes, the first three years ago, and each more debilitating than the last. Royal should have come back to England after the first, but his father's letters had assured him of his recovery, and Royal had wanted to believe it. He wanted to stay at Sugar Reef.
He looked down at the frail old man on the bed, once a man of unbelievable power and strength. It was sheer force of will, Royal believed, that had kept his father alive this long.
"Royal…?"
He moved to the bed, settled himself in the chair his youngest brother had vacated. "I'm right here, Father." He reached out and clasped the duke's thin, cold hand. Though it was warm in the bedroom, he made a mental note to stoke up the flames in the hearth.
"I am sorry… my son," the duke said in a raspy voice, "for the poor legacy… I have left you. I have failed you… and your… brothers."
"It's all right, Father. Once you are back on your feet—"
"Do not talk… nonsense, boy." He took a few wheezing breaths, his mouth drooping slightly, and Royal fell silent. "I've lost it all. I am not… not even sure exactly how it happened. Somehow it just… slipped away."
Royal didn't have to ask what his father meant. The furniture missing from the drawing rooms, the bare spots on the walls where exquisite gilt-framed paintings once had hung, the general dilapidated condition of what had once been one of the grandest houses in England told the story.
"In time, our fortune can be rebuilt," Royal said. "The Bransford dukedom will be as mighty as it ever was."
"Yes… I am certain it will be." He coughed, dragged in a shaky breath. "I know I can… count on you, Royal… you and your brothers. But it won't be easy."
"I will see it done, Father, I promise you."
"And so you… shall. And I am going to help you… even after I am dead and buried."
Royal's chest squeezed. He knew his father was going to die. It was only a matter of time. Still, it was difficult to accept that a man once as strong and vital as the duke would actually be gone.
"Did you hear what I said… Royal?"
He had, but only dimly. "Yes, Father, but I'm afraid I don't know what you mean."
"There is a way…my son. The simplest…of ways. Marriage to the right woman will give you… the money you need." His frail hold tightened on Royal's hand. "I have found her, son. The perfect… woman."
Royal straightened in his chair, certain his father must have returned to his former rambling.
"She is beautiful…" the duke continued. "An exquisite creature… worthy of becoming your duchess." The old man's strength seemed to grow with every word, and for a moment, the dull glaze over his eyes lifted, turning them the fierce blue of his youth. "She is an heiress, my boy…inherited a fortune from her grandfather. And the size of her dowry is incredible. You will be a wealthy man again."
"You should rest. I can come back—"
"Listen to me, son. I have already spoken to her… father, a man named Henry Caulfield. Caulfield dotes on her. He is determined… to give her a title. The arrangements have already… been made." He wheezed in a breath, coughed, but his hold on Royal's hand never weakened. "After a suitable period of mourning… you will marry Jocelyn Caulfield. With her fortune…and your resolve… you can rebuild the house and return our lands to their former glory."
The duke's grip grew fierce. Royal was amazed he had that much strength. And he realized his father wasn't rambling. Indeed, he knew exactly what he was saying. "Promise me you will do it. Say you will marry the girl."
Royal's heart was thumping oddly. He owed his father, yet deep inside, some part of him wanted to refuse, to rebel against a life that had been dictated for him. Though he had been trained to assume the duties of duke, he hadn't expected to face those duties so soon.
His mind rushed backward. At two-and-twenty, he had hied himself off to adventure in the Caribbean. He had taken over the running of the family plantation. The vast acreage had been of little value when he had assumed the role as owner. Through hours of back-breaking labor, he had created a domain he could be proud of, made the plantation the success it was today.
He had known one day he would be called back home. He had known he would face responsibilities beyond anything he had handled in the past.
But he hadn't expected his father to die so soon.
Or to inherit a title and lands that had been stripped completely bare.
His father's grip slackened, his energy drained. The corner of his mouth drooped as it had before. "Promise me…"
Royal swallowed. His father was dying. How could he refuse his dying wish?
"Please…" the duke whispered.
"I will marry her, Father, as you wish. You have my word."
The duke made a faint nod of his head. A slow breath whispered out and his eyes slowly closed. For an instant, Royal feared he was dead. Then his chest weakly inflated, and Royal felt a sweep of relief. Releasing his father's cold hand, he slipped it beneath the covers and eased away from the bed. He paused long enough to build up the fire, then left the suite.
As he stepped outside, he spotted Rule pacing the hallway. His brother jerked to a halt as Royal quietly closed the door.
"Is he…?"
"He is as he was." He released a breath. "He has arranged a marriage. The woman comes with an enormous dowry, enough to begin rebuilding the family lands and holdings. I have agreed to the match."
Rule frowned, ...
